Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Scented Letters
by thatwriterwhocan'tstop
Summary: Following Holmes' overly dramatic return, I had hoped a holiday would allow him some quiet time to recuperate. However, some seemingly innocent yet slightly scented letters prevented any sort of tranquil rest for my oldest friend. Life with Holmes is never dull, yet the way he carries on makes me wonder just how long we'll both live, Long enough to take down this story's villains?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I own nothing Sherlock Holmes related, obviously. Enjoy! Reviews would be much appreciated **

It is always difficult for me to decide which adventure to publish next, however this one was not so taxing a decision. In all the adventures I have regaled, I have neglected perhaps the most important. Following Holmes' return, and all the drama surrounding it, there was a period of time where my pen was stayed. Moran's tale took quite some time for me to put together to a level where Holmes wasn't offended by the amount of emotion, so once it was complete I suggested that we retire to the country for a week or two as a holiday of sorts. I felt this would allow the public time to get used to the idea of Sherlock's revelations, and give him some time to recuperate, as it was clear that he had not looked after himself properly whilst trekking across the globe.

Holmes only agreed to the retreat on the condition that I leave off publishing my narratives while we were there, I still wonder today if he was trying to force me into having some respite, instead of the terse excuse of he didn't want the press, or Lestrade for that matter, bothering him from an experiment he was hoping to conduct while we were hiding from the real world, as he so succinctly put it. He knew I was still feeling overwrought from the last time I had ever seen my poor wife, but that is a tale already told, and I am now certain that the experiment he planned was designed to distract me as much as possible – a plan which succeeded most successfully.

The morning of the 18th of April was drab and cold. A chill wind had started up in the early hours of the morning and cooled our apartment at 221B Baker Street considerably, causing my leg to seize up somewhat. Thankfully, the ever faithful Mrs Hudson had laid a cheering fire in the living room grate, and it was there that I took my breakfast. I waited for Holmes to appear at the top of the stairs in some ridiculous guise, for it was seldom the case that I should rise before him. Yet it seemed that his exploits with Moran had tired him, and it was some twenty minutes before he emerged from his room, a yawn stretching his newly shaved face.

'Holmes, sit and take some tea and perhaps a slice of toast. You look positively dreadful!' I hollered in his direction.

He didn't make any reply, other than to groan and throw his thin form onto the easy chair. Of course I hadn't expected him to eat anything, but it felt odd to say nothing, the shock of his return still fresh in my mind.

It was a quarter to nine before the hansom arrived to take us to the station, and it was half past before we set out. Holmes developed an adversity to leaving the apartment, which may or may not have had something to do with the empty vial of cocaine lying on the mantelpiece. His antics made us miss the nine thirty train, and so when we arrived at a quarter to ten we found ourselves facing an unwelcome forty-five minute wait. It wasn't too bad to begin with; Holmes made some quiet deductions regarding the passers-by to amuse us both; but it was when boredom fell over his brilliant mind that he began to get restless. Having known him as long as I have I recognised the signs immediately.

He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin upon them, a deep frown furrowing his brow. He took his pipe from the inner pocket of his travelling coat and chewed thoughtfully on the end of it. A few minutes later it appeared that a retreat to the great palace that was his mind wasn't going to help either; Holmes huffed and leapt off the bench, pacing in front me.

'You know Watson; I can't afford to be waiting around like this. It is imperative that I find something with which to occupy myself. Unlike you, I cannot be content with a mediocre novel. It was the gentleman who owns the corner shop, if you're interested. And while we're away I fully intend to- ah. I suspected Donovan may make an appearance before too long. How may I further your career this time Donovan? I see. You haven't come for yourself, but for Lestrade. I see he is still considering leaving his wife. You needn't look so surprised; the scent of his favourite cigarettes is clinging to the lapels of your overcoat, he only smokes that particular tobacco after a particularly trying argument with the dreadful woman. Well? Is there a case or are you going to continue to stand there looking gormless? Really Donovan you do have the most dreadful manners at times.'

Donovan, with noticeable effort pulled himself together and spoke slowly:

'Well Mister Holmes sir, the detective inspector bade me to tell you that while he is aware that you do not want disturbing while you are away, he would be most grateful sir if you could take a look at this set of letters while you are away – we cannot make head nor tail of them and thought you might appreciate a puzzle sir.'

He drew a thick bundle of papers tied together with coarse string and held them out towards Holmes, but during the course of Donovan's explanation my good friend had lost interest and was instead turning to leave, heading towards the train that was slowly entering the station. With a knowing smile Donovan instead held them out to me, and with them tucked firmly in the folds of my novel – the thrill of it somewhat lost thanks to Holmes – I took my seat on the train bound for what I thought would be the peace and quiet of the countryside


	2. Chapter 2: Night Terrors

**A/N: I'm crap at life. I know! I now own a copy of all 60 Sherlock Holmes stories in one gorgeous book, so hopefully the quality of writing will improve as I read more of Watson's Wisdom. Feedback would be much appreciated, Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Any mistakes are entirely my own.**

Chapter two:

A few days into our retreat from London and Holmes had yet to open the curious bundle of letters given to us by Donovan. At any other time I would have been concerned with Holmes' apathy towards a puzzle, however this time I was glad that he was taking our excursion seriously. Of course our arrival in the town had not gone completely unnoticed, almost immediately we were set upon by a woman begging us to help her find her cat. Holmes' abrupt nature soon saw her on her way, although after he had taken a long walk said cat mysteriously reappeared in the village.

To most, it might seem that his disappearance had not changed him, but to the privileged few who knew him better it was obvious that Holmes had softened somewhat. The urgency and paranoia that plagued him during Professor Moriarty's reign of terror had abated; the mad twinkle in his eye had returned. Of course there were days when Sherlock would lay unmoving on the settee, curtains drawn closed against offensive daylight, and an empty bottle of morphine on the floor. On those days there was little to be done with him, other than to ensure he was still breathing. The steady pulse of his heart was the one comfort I afforded myself; the audacity of touching a finger to the side of his neck when he lay prostrate and still my one weakness, the only lingering insecurity left by a madman now residing at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls.

I digress. In between my memories of the war, and Moriarty my sleep pattern was somewhat shot. Some nights I would wake easily, but most I lay trapped in my nightmares – a friend and comrade beyond reach under the desert sun, Holmes falling endlessly screaming for help. It was upon one such unpleasant night that I was sharply torn from my dark slumber by a hand shaking my shoulder and Holmes calling my name.

'Watson old chap, I feel a little distraction is in order.'

In my dozy state it was all I could do to nod and motion to the door, signalling that given a few moments to recollect myself I would join him in the hotel parlour for tea. When I entered the room, embarrassed at my weakness, for my limp had returned with a vengeance thanks to the terrors which Holmes had roused me from, I found him sat waiting for me with the letters laid out in front of him.

'I couldn't sleep Watson, so I therefore set my mind upon this little drama Donovan has sent off with us. And quite the drama it has turned out to be! These letters are most peculiar. Say, what do you make of them?'

It was nothing out of the ordinary for Holmes to wake me up over a case, in this instance it was a blessing. A bit of trivia such as this would keep my melancholy thoughts at bay, and perhaps if I fell asleep pondering them; respite from dreams. I picked a piece of paper up at random, it read as follows:

'My dearest Nettie,

Everything goes well. The artefact we search for should be within our grasp soon.

Say hello to the boys for me, and tell them I hope they will fix their toys soon.

All my love,

Archibald Pennington-Wright'

'Well the first thing that stands out is this artefact – some kind of treasure hunt? Of course I'm waiting for you to tell me I have missed everything of importance and point out the minutiae that makes all the difference.'

Holmes chuckled at my assessment, and took the paper from me. He held it close to his face, turning it this way and that, sniffing like a bloodhound on the track.

'Scented. Citrus. Most likely from that of an orange. Strange eh Watson? Read another aloud, and tell me what you make of it.'

He was really enjoying himself now. I knew that Holmes would be watching my face, enjoying the growing confusion that would settle on my open features. I did as he bid, and as I predicted, the second letter I read caused nothing but utter confusion in my mind. It was completely different from the first, but signed by the same gentleman. This one I noted was not scented.

'Dear Nicola,

I'm afraid there is no trace of the statuette here. Maltham is insisting that we continue our search, so I will be unable to meet with you for some time. If I do not return within six months, open the letter that you will find behind the painting of the roses in your drawing room. I placed it there when I came to meet your Father shortly before I left.

All my heart,

Archibald'

'The post date is 2 months later earlier than that other one, Holmes what do you think inspired such a change?'

'You see here, I have separated the letters into two piles; one scented, the other not. How the cretins at Scotland Yard missed such a vital detail I really do not know. You may notice that the differences between the letters do not stop at scent, the way they are written and the information given is completely contradictory.'

Holmes was in full lecture mode. While he spoke, the tired looking proprietor brought us more tea, this time with some biscuits. Although Holmes never reacted to the man's presence, I dare say he catalogued every move before disregarding it from his mind-attic as he once called it.

'I have already begun to run through different alphabets using replacement techniques, however no tangible words have discerned themsel- Oh. Watson, grab your coat. There's been an interesting theft and they want us to take a look.'

I turned my head towards the door, well used to Holmes' quick nature. Sure enough, his reputation had preceded us - there was a representative from the local force slowly making his way towards us, the innkeeper close behind him. Just like that, our holiday was over, and like old times we were heading out into the night, hopefully into something a bit exciting.

**A/N2: The mind attic is mentioned in '**_**A Study in Scarlet'**_**. I've really struggled with this one, so feedback would be really helpful in writing CH3. With a bit of luck, the pace should begin to pick up a bit now the stage has been set. Thank you! **


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